To the Last
by moonlighten
Summary: 1421: Scotland and France reconnect after their victory in the Battle of Baugé during the Hundred Years' War. (Scotland/France.) One shot, complete. Part of the Feel the Fear series.


The other fics in the Feel the Fear series are listed (and linked) in chronological order on my profile page.  
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22nd March, 1421; Baugé, Kingdom of France**

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The air stinks of churned mud, spilt blood, and the caustic tang of fear. It stinks of battle, and Scotland's horse is restive, tossing its head with such violence that he can scarcely keep a hold of his reins. Its powerful haunches are bunched tight behind the saddle; ready to launch itself straight into a gallop were Scotland to touch his heel to its flank.

Scotland's muscles, too, are drawn as taut as a bowstring, quivering from the effort of keeping himself still. Every fibre of his being is urging him to run, to fight, even though their enemy has been defeated, and England's archers are routed. The day has been won, but Scotland's heart still pounds with the same, frenzied rhythm.

It beats even faster when France approaches. He has shed his helmet and gauntlets, and he lays one bare hand against the neck of Scotland's horse, fingernails scratching beneath its long mane.

"Hush," he tells it. "Be calm. The fighting is done."

These last words are directed towards Scotland as well as his horse, and all are said in the same soft, soothing tone. Scotland supposes he should be insulted by that, but he supposes a lot of things where France is concerned that never come to pass.

The heavy weight bearing down on his chest eases slightly, and his grip on the reins slackens. The horse pulls the rest of their length through his hands as it yanks its head forward and then down, towards the torn sod beneath its hooves. It begins grazing.

Scotland does not attempt to stop it, but he tells France, "England could yet return."

"He could," France says, "but I doubt it will be today. He lost his commander; his king's heir. I think he will be licking that particular wound for some time to come."

If their opponent were anyone else, Scotland could well believe that, but England is never more dangerous than when he has been injured.

"Nevertheless—"

"Nevertheless, we have won." France moves his hand from the horse's neck to Scotland's knee, and from there on up to his thigh. Scotland cannot feel the heat of it through the thick metal of his cuisse, just the barest hint of pressure. Still, it is enough to silence him. "You can rest now. You're the last man on the field."

Scotland had been so intent on scanning the horizon for sign of his brother that he had not noticed before that he is alone save for the crows. His own soldiers are accustomed to witnessing such behaviour from him following battle, but France's are not. They likely consider it odd, and given that they already think so little of both him and his men, Scotland would not be surprised if they were mocking him behind his back for it. Perhaps that had been what had spurred France to seek him out and save him from himself.

Shamed by that thought, he quickly dismounts his horse.

France smiles at Scotland approvingly, and then gestures for him to lift his visor. Scotland hesitates for a moment before complying, because the inside of his helmet is sour and slick with his condensed breath, his hair sodden with staling sweat, and he doubtless reeks even more than his horse does.

Thankfully, France does not seem to be deterred by any of it. He traces the line of Scotland's jaw with the tips of his fingers, looks up at him with bright, triumphant eyes, and says, "You were magnificent, _mon taureau_."

Scotland doesn't have chance to thank him, or offer his own praise in turn, before France kisses him. It's like being plunged back into battle again, hard, and bruising, and brutal, even though Scotland would have thought they had both had had their fill of violence this day.

When he tastes blood on his lips, he places one hand flat against France's chest and gently pushes him back. "Easy," he says, forcing laughter to soften the word in the hopes that it sounds less like an admonishment.

France scowls at him, regardless. "Why?" he demands.

"Well, I don't much fancy bedding down on the battlefield, if it's all the same to you," Scotland says.

If France forged onwards, then he would concede - that's a fight he's never been able to win - but whilst his head is still clear enough to allow rational thought, the prospect turns his stomach.

"And I had no intention of doing so," France says, his voice sharp and dripping with distaste, as though he is offended by the very suggestion. "It should take us no more than a moment or two to walk back to camp."

He turns on his heel, and strides off swiftly in the direction of Vieil-Baugé. Scotland gathers up his horse's reins, and then follows after him, keeping a careful few paces of distance between them.

In deference to their station, their men are willing to turn a blind eye to many things when it comes to their kingdoms, and most are probably well aware that he and France often share a bed, but Scotland would still prefer to avoid drawing any undue attention to their movements if he possibly can.

Most of their soldiers are billeted in the village proper, laying their heads down wherever they can find a spare nook or cranny in barns, outbuildings, and houses, but Scotland, France and the rest of their army's commanding officers have been assigned their own tents, erected in a field just beyond the church. France heads towards Scotland's and then ducks inside it, leaving Scotland alone to find someone to tend to his horse.

He is gone for no more five minutes about his task, but it is clear that France is angered by the delay all the same.

He's red-faced, scowling once more, and when he launches himself at Scotland again, his kiss is just as punishing as before. Scotland takes hold of his forearms - one stripped down the gambeson, the other still armoured by his vambrace - and tries to steady him, but France just surges forward with even more determination, pressing so close that their breastplates clash with a discordant screech as they grind together.

Scotland wrenches his head aside, pants out against France's shoulder: "I think we're a little overdressed for this."

"Of course," France says stiffly, stilling against him. "You'll be wanting to call for your squire, I suppose."

Scotland laughs, certain that that must be a joke. "Naw, I can manage well enough on my own," he says. "Though it'll be much easier if we help each other."

He slides his hand up France's vambrace, meaning to untie it, but France shrugs away his touch, then stalks off to the far end of the tent, where he leans up against the chest set beside Scotland's bedroll.

It seems self-defeating behaviour, but his pride may have been stung by Scotland's attempt to aid him. If so, he likely now wants to prove that he too is fully capable of removing his armour alone.

Scotland sighs, and leaves him to it, knowing that any attempt on his part to press the matter further will only result in France digging in his heels all the deeper. Instead, he turns all of his attention to the task of taking off his own armour as fast as he can, before France's ardour has chance to cool.

It takes longer than he would like, as his squire had tied the pieces very securely indeed, but vambraces, rerebraces, and spaulders clatter to the hard-packed ground alongside his gauntlets soon enough.

His breastplate is much more troublesome. Its buckles are stiff, and awkwardly placed, and Scotland struggles to unfasten them even when his arms aren't aching from swinging a sword. He twists and turns, paws and swears at them, but to no avail.

"France," he calls out. "Could you give me a—"

"You should not have allowed _Angleterre_ to retreat."

The statement shocks Scotland, though not because of its content, but its timing. He'd presumed France's mind was turned to much pleasanter thoughts, as his own had been. And as such, he cannot summon up any better response than, "What?"

"You should not have allowed _Angleterre_ to retreat," France repeats, pronouncing each word slowly and deliberately, in the manner of one talking to a small and particularly dim-witted child.

He often talks to Scotland thus, and it always grates hard against his nerves. Scotland has to grit his teeth and take several deep calming breaths before replying, in order that he can keep his voice anything close to level. "I had my orders," he says.

France snorts derisively. "And when have _orders_ ever mattered when it comes to your brother," he says. "I wanted his head."

All tied up with a pretty bow, too, no doubt. Scotland would have presented it to him gladly, but he hadn't crossed swords with England in the fighting, though he had felt his presence on the field; that old, familiar, sickening maelstrom of magic that swirls around his brother's feet.

England had stayed behind with Lord Salisbury when the Duke of Clarence led his disastrous charge at the ridge above Vieil-Baugé, and by the time Scotland had chance to engage what little then remained of the English forces, they had rallied their archers and he was met with a hail of arrows. He had been forced to retreat himself even before the Earl of Buchan ordered him to do so.

"We'll have other chances for that," he says. "War's not over yet."

"It was poorly done, _Écosse_ ," France says. "You may have cost us dearly."

He sounds so contemptuous that Scotland expects a swift dismissal to follow, but France surprises him by hurrying to his side and immediately setting to work unbuckling his breastplate.

France's breastplate is still in place, as is his sole vambrace and every other piece of armour beside. In contrast, he makes short work of removing the remainder of Scotland's, casting each carelessly aside until Scotland is clad only in his sweat-soaked hose and gambeson.

He grabs hold of Scotland's shoulders then, and leans in close, nostrils flaring wide. He sniffs pointedly, and then announces, "You stink," just as Scotland had feared he might.

It's not the dismissal Scotland had been expecting, but it is one all the same.

"I'll go and clean up," he says, although not without a degree of reluctance. He does not much relish the thought of plunging into the icy cold waters of the Couasnon yet again.

"Good," France says. "And if you're quick enough about it, I might still be here waiting for you when you return."

There's a hard edge to his voice and in his gaze; something like a challenge, which Scotland cannot fathom. With such an inducement, why on earth would he tarry?

"You won't even notice I'm gone," he promises France with a smile.

France does not return it. "That remains to be seen," he says.  
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 **Notes:**

\- The Battle of Baugé was a major defeat for the English at the hands of a Franco-Scots army during the Hundred Years' War.


End file.
